Beneath the Old Oak Tree
by Moonchild707
Summary: Origins 1: 1652. Her weight was heavy in his arms. Standing on the cold floor, he huddled before the dying hearth, staring down at her tiny face. Her eyes were huge—the deep, piercing blue held him close and he could not look away. Father's angry shouts echoed through the walls and the baby began to cry, but Carlisle stroked her cheek. "Don't worry, little one. I won't let you go."
1. Prologue: Summer 2017

**Prologue: Summer 2017**

He stands on the cusp of the world.

Toes barely brushing the overgrown, knee-high grass growing tall and proud in the courtyard, he waits, ever silent and watchful. He can hear the sounds of life, always so far away from this distant corner of buried dreams as the village readies itself for sleep. Carlisle has always loved this time of day, just as the fires begin to glow in their grates and families come together. He cannot help but stop, looking away from the calm, desolate ruin before him, to watch the little panes in the hollow glow red. He does not dare think of his own black windows, their glass broken by age and neglect. Only when he sees the first fire go out, its cheery orange warmth snuffed by an unknown, mysterious _someone_ , does he turn away.

The world has grown dark around him, the rosy glow of the sun dipping down behind the distant, sleepy hamlet. He remembers it clearly as it had once been—he can almost see the thatched rooves, smoking chimneys, and ducked, bowed heads shuffling into homes after evening prayer. He can see the church—a massive, towering spire splitting the indigo sky that sits on an old, crumbling foundation built so long ago. The cedars—towering and unkempt—cast eerie shadows on the verge, and his sharp eyes can make out the distinct patterns of black on green. The wind moves through the yard, sending ripples to the walls of the crumbling homestead and the base of those wild cedar trees, as if some little creature was scurrying through the undergrowth.

But Carlisle knows better—there are no creatures, big or small, waiting for him here.

Only when the deep, inky blue gives way to a thick and obstinate black does Carlisle pull his eyes away from the grass. Forcing himself to look—how he _hates_ to look—he fixes his gaze not on the distant village or overbearing cedars, but instead on the gnarled, towering oak tree in the centre of the grassy square.

He recalls her then, with a sudden fierceness that could've brought him to his knees. He sees her broken. He sees her whole. He sees her tall and beautiful and clever… the woman she would never grow to be. His eyes water, though the tears will never fall, and in the wavering, glittering world beyond, he fancies she is really there, silhouetted against the trunk with her thin, white arms reaching up to the sky…

He recalls her as she was that afternoon so long ago, in a time when the world was golden and there was nothing but the promise of hope.


	2. I: Winter 1652

.

 **Part 1: Innocence**

 _There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,_  
 _The earth and every common sight,_  
 _To me did seem_  
 _Apparelled in celestial light,_  
 _The glory and freshness of a dream._

* * *

 **I: Winter 1652**

The night was black and icy in the great hall of the vast, stone manor house. Snow, thick and white, swirled beyond the tall windows, glinting and sparkling in the glow from the torches on the walls and the lone, grand hearth still lit to beat back the frost. The wind shook the glass in every frame as it swept over the side of the house, howling like a beast in the rafters of the attic. It spooked the boy, that eerie, disembodied yowling echoing through soot-stained chimneys, so he sat in the circle of light, his chin resting stiffly on his curled knees. His fingers picked compulsively at a long, loose threat on his breeches, though he knew better than to tug it free. If he pulled and the seam came loose, his Mama would scold him something terrible. She would fuss, and frown, and call him a headstrong, disobedient boy…

"Young Master!"

The hiss, unexpected and sharp, startled the boy so badly that he nearly toppled back into the flames. He caught himself, his hand coming dangerously close to the searing iron grate as he scrambled to his feet, his eyes narrowed in apprehensive suspicion.

"Who's there?" he demanded, doing his very best to sound brave. In truth, he was not brave at all. Blinded by fire, he could see no further than an arm's length away and his heart pounded—a cowardly sound, if ever he knew one. He blinked furiously to clear the great, blooming spots from his vision, but try as he might, he could not make out any shapes through the darkness.

"Oh, Young Master…" The voice came again, and this time, the boy sagged with relief. His eyes began to adjust just as the woman's toes hit the firelight, and at once, the boy recognized them. Brown leather, worn with age and neglect, strapped to the small, dainty feet of his nurse. As always, Bessie wore her grey, woolen dress, its hem frayed and wet with melting snow. The sight of her made the boy's throat close up, a sudden, childish lump belying his forced bravado.

"There now…" Bessie was startled, though not unwelcoming, when the boy—still at least a head shorter than she—wrapped his skinny arms around her middle. "There now… all is well. No need to fret so…"

The boy chanced a glance into the basket Bessie had carried in on her hip. It was piled high with white linen, all stained red as if one of his father's crystal decanters of ruby wine had been upended over it.

"Never mind, now," clucked Bessie, shifting herself to block his view. "Never you mind. The midwife knows what she's doing. She's delivered plenty of hale and hearty boys, and babying is never easy business…"

And all at once, almost as if his mother could hear their hushed voices from the other end of the house, a loud, keening cry rang out from the west wing. The sound chilled the child to his marrow and he clung desperately to his plump, steady nurse.

"There now…" Bessie patted his head. "You should be in bed. There's no use sitting here, in the cold and the dark… be a good boy, now. Go on off to sleep…"

But the boy shook his head.

"I don't want to go to bed, Bessie," he pleaded. "I can't go to bed."

"Why ever not?"

The boy looked up at her, his blonde head flashing in the firelight. His eyes seemed to glow out of the darkness. To Bessie, they looked as deep, and blue, and troubled as the seaside during a rough and tumultuous storm. As the nurse surveyed him, the boy thought he caught a hint of a frown about her sunny, merry face.

"Your mama will be well, child," she murmured finally, her gaze drifting to the pile of bloodied linen for the merest moment. "Rest now. God willing, you'll have a brand new brother come morning, and the Master would be very cross to catch you here at such an hour."

The boy bit his lip.

"Alright," he said finally, holding tight to her warm, brown hand.

Another gust of wind send cold air swirling about the boy's feet.

"Now, there's a good lad," said Bessie approvingly, tucking her basket back under her arm. "Come along, now…"

The boy followed her out of the hall.

* * *

He woke to the sound of chaos.

Still clothed in his breeches and tunic from the day before, the boy was dragged from sleep by a bang from the hallway. His eyes opened blearily into complete blackness—the smoldering coals that Bessie had stoked some hours prior had gone out, and it took the boy a long moment of furious blinking before he could remember just where he was. Hushed whispers came to him on the tail of anxious murmurs, and he sat up in the small nursery bed, his feet hitting the floor in complete silence.

He jumped when someone hit his door—a loud thud that bounced off the thick, stone walls to echo among the high, wooden beams above his head. The boy listened, torn between fear and curiosity, to the noises and voices growing ever louder…

"Be quiet, you fool girl!" The boy pressed an ear to the wood of the door. "If you wake the young Master…"

Sniffling—labored and noisy—was the only reply.

"You'll keep your mouth shut, if you know what's good for you. Let the boy sleep. God knows he's going to need it…"

The boy did not understand, confused and tired as he was, what Bessie could possibly be talking about. He fought back against the cobwebs in his head—why could he not think straight?—and rubbed his itching eyes with a tight, curled fist.

"But what will happen to…?"

"Shush!"

"But—"

A slap—the sound of a hand on flesh—rang down the corridor and the boy leapt back from the door, startled.

He pulled on the latch.

"Bessie?" His voice rang out from the crack in the door, as high and reedy as a girl's. He could see her standing, looming over a kitchen maid in the orange glow of a lonely, flickering candle, and he saw her spine stiffen at the sound of him.

"Go back to bed, lad," she said, keeping her back turned. "It's still early."

"What's happened?" he asked. He closed the chamber door behind him. "Where's Father?"

He snuck around to see Bessie's face, standing on tip-toe to make out the shadowed lines of her frown. Her face was drawn, wan and pale in the black corridor, and though she smiled down at him, there was something about the stiff set of her mouth and the brightness in her eyes that gave him pause.

At once, his heart began to race.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, pulling away when Bessie reached out to soothe him. "Where's my father?"

The kitchen maid began to cry.

"Poppet…" The endearment made his mouth go dry. Bessie hadn't used that name since she'd cut away his baby hair and changed his dresses into breeches.

The boy pulled away before the nurse could catch him, and he darted down the corridor, disappearing into the cold, ebony blackness.

"Father?" His voice echoed as he ran. "Mother?"

Silence.

"Father?" He rounded another corner. "Mother?"

A flicker of light danced at the end of the corridor and the boy rushed towards it. The tapestry on the opposite wall seemed to move as he passed it—a haloed Virgin Mary robed in blue against a sea of green trees. Her open palms, held out in humble invitation, seemed to flick, beckoning him on…

The doors to the west wing—the lady's chambers in which his mother had been ensconced for six, long weeks—were thrown open.

The air smelled like blood. Heat from the roaring, blistering inferno in the grate hit the boy's face as he halted, standing stock-still at the threshold. There was a woman, hunched, withered, and wrinkled, kneeling on the floor, her beaten, bloodied hands held up in desperate appeal.

But it was his father—that great, towering silhouette—that made the boy's blood run cold. He had never seen such a look on his father's face before—it was contorted in abject misery, his red, swollen eyes glued pitilessly on the cowering woman. The boy could see how he clenched his fists at his sides, as if at any moment, he would strike her…

"It was the Lord's will…" The crone spoke in a rasping voice. "Please, it was the Lord's will…"

"Do not speak to me of our Lord!" Father's voice roared through the silence. "You, who prostrate yourself before me… you, who have taken everything!"

"I beg you, Reverend, please…"

"Silence!" The boy jumped. "You have failed in your duty—transgressed your Earthly purpose given to you by that great and holy Father whose name you use so freely! And have no doubt…" his father gave a savage, humorless laugh, "he will judge you for your failings. On the day of judgment, when all is laid bare, he will see your sins and cast you out… you, who have killed the most precious woman God ever saw fit to grace these Earthly shores!"

The boy bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood. His father's hand reached out and grabbed the old woman by her hair—it was long, and grey, and tangled—and he turned to drag her from the room when he caught sight of the boy, still and trembling in the darkness of the corridor.

The old woman began to weep.

"Carlisle." There was a brief flicker in Father's eyes as he took in the sight of his son.

The boy, Carlisle, stood still.

"Stand aside," growled Father. The boy did as he was bid. When the pair—man and crone—stumbled past the place where the boy stood, his father paused, jerking the woman's head up.

"Tell him," growled Father. "Confess your grievous sins to my son—her son—and tell him what has become of his mother!"

"I have committed no sin!" cried the woman. "It was God's will!"

Carlisle felt the sting of childish tears in his eyes as his father shook the woman so hard that her teeth rattled, and a few strands of long, silver hair fell to the floor.

"Tell him!" he bellowed. Carlisle's tears fell. "Tell him what you've done!"

The woman, terrified and desperate, shook her head again and babbled.

"'Twas not I! It tore through her like a knife… not I, but the girl! Born upside down and backwards…we had no choice but to pull her free! No choice, Reverend… No! I beg you!"

Carlisle leapt back, flattening himself against the wall as his father let out a roar like a wounded beast and lifted the woman clean off of her feet, tossing her with ease into the cold, black corridor. As his father retreated, Carlisle escaped into the quiet of his mother's chambers, the bellowing anger of his father disappearing around a bend in the hall.

The boy did not know what to do.

"…mother?" The small, plaintive query slipped out in near silence, his throat thick with worry as he tried to speak. "Mother?"

Silence.

Carefully, as if he walked in his father's chapel instead of their family home, Carlisle tiptoed towards the back of the outer chamber, away from the overwhelming heat of the flames and towards the large, airy bedchamber that was his mother's sanctuary.

The scent of blood that hung heavy in the air was trailed by the sour stench of sweat as he reached the doorway to the furthest chamber. He could not see inside—the windows, he noted, were blocked, hung with thick, heavy tapestries. He lingered there for a long moment, squinting into the dark, before he found the courage to breach its confines, to enter that realm of femininity from which he'd been exiled almost as soon as he could walk.

The darkness seemed to consume him as he stared, wide-eyed, at the still, contorted figure on the bed. One arm rested above her head, her fist curled loosely around a thick, heavy rope tied to the bedpost. Her other hand lay limp on the mattress and her legs were splayed wide, her small, white foot dangling off the edge…

"Mother?" Carlisle spoke the word one final time as he walked, seemingly without thought, towards her. He could see her now, dim though she was. He could see her face, as calm and beautiful as she had always been, but this time, her bright, blue eyes did not light up as they always had whenever Carlisle snuck in to see her. She remained still—eerily so—as he approached, and though her eyes were open, she did not blink. As he grew nearer, he saw the slick sheen of sweat on her face, the hollows at her collar guiding rivulets down her chest…

His legs hit the edge of the bed.

Clad only in her white shift, his mother continued to stare, unseeing, at the canopy above her head. He had never before seen his mother in such a state of undress, though he was still too young to realize what it might mean, and it was only when he reached out to take her hand that the truth sank in.

"You, who have killed the most precious woman God ever saw fit to grace these Earthly shores…"

Her hand was cold as ice. Her beautiful face, staring blankly towards the heavens, was white as milk. Her mouth was open, though she did not speak, and when Carlisle put his palm to her thin chest, there was no rise and fall of breath.

Carlisle had seen dead things before. He knew the strangeness of a corpse, of a vessel cast off by its fleeing soul and left to rot in the cold, wet earth. He had seen his father's old hunting dog after it had been run down by the big, black bear it had been tracking. He'd seen a man hung for murder—one of his father's wayward parishioners whose soul, Father had assured him, was wallowing in Hell. He'd seen the poor, dead bird on the windowsill of his nursery, its neck broken in its headlong collision with the sparkling glass, and an elderly man in his coffin, carried to the churchyard by his four, strong sons…

But never, in all his life, had he touched death as he did now. He bit his lip against the threat of tears and twined his fingers with hers, holding his breath deep in his chest, waiting for some sign of life…

He willed her to breathe. He willed her to move. He prayed to God with all of his might that she would wake, and rise, and kiss his cheek as she as so wont to do with a quick and playful "surprise!" on her lips…

But when he opened his eyes— he had clenched them shut to pray— her face was as calm, her hand as cold, and her eyes as unblinking as they had been before. Slowly— so slowly, for he did not want to disturb her— he pressed a quick, impulsive kiss to her knuckles and placed her limp hand gently on her stomach…

Her belly was flat.

Staring, confused, Carlisle laid a careful, inquisitive hand on her slender, yet still soft, middle. The last time he had seen her, it had been round and ripe— full to bursting with the dancing baby that lay within. How often had he sat beside her as she sewed or knit—always some tiny, white dress small enough for a doll— with his hand pressed against her loosened corset to feel the kicking of tiny feet?

But where was it, that bouncing, dancing little creature whose very being had made his mother so happy?

Carlisle took a step back from the bed, from the empty shell of his mother, and glanced around the room for a clue, any clue, to tell him where the creature might have gone. Could it walk like a newborn foal, small and feeble though it must be? Carlisle had never seen a new baby—he had no cousins or siblings of his own—and so it was under the bed, in the deep, dark trunk along the side wall, and in the wash basin abandoned on the floor, that Carlisle looked.

But it was as he began to search behind a tapestry of Noah's Ark hung in the biggest, brightest window, that he finally saw it.

Nestled in a pool of watery blood, barely visible under the short shift covering his mother's legs, was an impossibly tiny foot.

Carlisle rushed so quickly that he stumbled— tripped over the rug covering the floor— in his haste to reach it. When he made it back to the bedside— he did not look at his mother's face this time— he grasped the hem of her stained, wet nightdress and peeked below, bile rising hot and acrid in his throat.

Fear flooded him in waves— great, hulking whitecaps breaching his walls and seeping down to soak him… to drown him…

The perfect little foot was attached to a plump and pale leg. She lay face-down— Carlisle could see, without a doubt, that she was a girl— with her cheeks round and full, still wet with her mother's blood. A severed cord, thick and sinewy, snaked from her belly, and the other end— Carlisle could not bear to look too closely— disappeared inside his mother. The baby's nose was pressed against his mother's thigh, its little eyes swollen shut…

A gust of cold air blowing down the chimney and out through the empty grate made him shiver and the baby, her rosebud lips blue, gave a weak cry.

Not dead... The thought consumed him, drove through him like an arrow, and he reached, his hands trembling like autumn leaves, towards her.

Her body was slick, wet with the gore that had brought her into the world, and Carlisle had to grip her tightly to keep her from slipping. She flopped like a ragdoll, her joints loose and her neck boneless as he turned her over onto her back, peering at her face. She splayed her toes and opened her lips, but not a sound did she make as Carlisle, frightened by how cold she was, wrapped her up in an old, soiled sheet.

"You're alright…" he sang, clutching her tiny body to his. She drew a rasping, gurgling breath. "You're alright…"

He felt her little chest working, struggling to draw another breath…

The baby began to choke.

"No…" The plea left him in a low, frightened murmur. He could hear her lungs crackling in his ear. "No…" The words became frantic as he looked for some place—anyplace— to lay her down. Her lips, still blue, began to darken, and her face went even paler…

Desperate, Carlisle recalled how the stable master, having just birthed a foal, had smacked it on the bottom to make it move. He reacted quickly, his hand, sticky with blood, swatting out at the baby's plump thighs with a sharp slap.

The tiny girl gave a sudden, bubbling gasp and finally—Carlisle could have wept with relief—gave a thick, noisy cough. He wiped the end of the long sheet across her mouth, clearing away the fluid she'd brought up, before she screwed up her face and began to cry.

Her cheeks went red almost at once, her lips turning pinker and pinker the longer she wailed.

"Good girl…" Carlisle said, and he was surprised to find a glaze of tears on his face. "Good girl…"

She began to shiver.

And all at once, he remembered. The room was frigid. The fire had gone out. The bed upon which his tiny sister had rested was wet, and although she had sat nestled between her mother's thighs, all the warmth had stolen away on the wings of that looming specter that had claimed her…

At once, holding tight to the wrapped bundle of sheets, Carlisle rushed back to the antechamber, blinking against the sudden wall of heat. Too much, he thought. If she grew too hot, she might catch fever…

So Carlisle ran as fast as his legs would carry him down the still and silent blackness of the corridor, rushing towards the one place he knew would be just warm enough. The big hearth in the great hall never went out, and if he sat her near enough and opened her bindings to let the fire warm her frozen fingers and toes, maybe, just maybe, she would be alright.

The hall was deserted as he skittered to a halt, though echoing shouts rang through the cavernous corridor that led to the front door. He paid no mind as he laid the baby down, careful to cushion her head on the hard, stone floor. She kept her eyes shut, her whole body trembling with cold, and no doubt, fright…

"It's okay," he said again, looking desperately around the room. Where was Bessie when you needed her? "You're alright…" She began to whimper. Carlisle peeled the dirty sheet away and peered down at her once again, his brow furrowed when he saw the shining wetness still clinging to her skin. She was damp and filthy, and although Carlisle knew little about babies or their needs, he was fairly certain that she should be clean, and warm, and dry.

A pitcher of water, sweetened with wine to ward off sickness, sat untouched at the high table, a relic leftover from their evening meal when the chaos of birth had interrupted them.

He left her on the floor while he scrambled to his feet, stumbling into the darkness to snatch up the pitcher. It was nearly full— no one had had much time for drinks before the meal had been interrupted— and Carlisle thanked God for this small mercy when he plunked it down beside the quivering baby.

He used the sheet— a lone, unsoiled corner dipped in rosy water— to cleanse her of the blood. She jerked, her hands splayed like little stars when the chilly water trickled over her chest and belly, her round face screwed up in displeasure. Carlisle would have found it funny had the situation not been so dire… the look of this little Madam, red-faced and squalling to protest her first bath…

Carlisle, the young, careless boy that he was, was not known for his cleanliness, but as he dragged the dripping sheet over her hair, her nose, her lips, her arms… he made sure to get every speck of filth from every crack and crevice. When he was through, not one drop of Mother's blood remained. She as all cream and rose petals, her soft, downy skin a healthy pink in the warmth and glow. She had light hair— so like his own that he could not help but run his fingers through it— and once he was satisfied that her shivers had stopped and she was dry, he carefully rewrapped her in his own clean tunic, leaving him bare-chested in the dimming firelight.

The night was cool.

He stood, shivering, in the firelight as the first weak rays of watery sun began to glow through the crystalline windows. He did not let her go, holding her as close to the flames as he dared until the sounds of shouting picked back up and a jolt of hot fear struck him.

"...where is it?" Father. "Where is it!?"

"I do not know, Master!" Bessie squealed in terror. "I swear to you, I do not know…"

"They said it had been born…" The baby girl squirmed. "I said my wife's last rights...I saw her at the very end, deflated and small… there was no baby in her then."

Baby whimpered.

"I know not!" Bessie's voice grew louder. "Perhaps one of the maids, Master, or else the serving boy…"

"She said it was dead. That… woman," he spat the word like a curse, "told me she'd killed it. I want to see it… to look upon the face of that which killed its mother!"

"Master…"

The voices stopped in the entrance to the hall as Bessie, her arm held in a tight grip by his father, took in the sight of the shirtless boy and the small, squirming bundle of cloth in his arms. Father swayed as he stared, stoic and shaking, at this unlikeliest of pairs.

"What have you done?" croaked Father. He released Bessie's arm. "Dear God, boy, what have you done?"

"I…" He cowered under his father's rage. "I… washed her," he said lamely. "I cleaned her, and wrapped her, and she was ever so cold…"

Father's hand twitched as if he might strike and Carlisle recoiled, his body hunched protectively over the delicate, precious bundle.

"Dear God…" His father sagged. "Dear God in heaven, help us all…"

Carlisle froze.

"Is it alive?" he croaked. "Tell me, boy… does that… that… abomination live?"

Stung, Carlisle looked down at the cherubic face with its perfect, rosebud lips and fluttering lavender eyelids. Abomination? No. Such an innocent could never be...

"She lives," he said quietly, unable to keep his resentment at bay. "She's alive."

His father cursed and once again, Carlisle felt the cowardly sting of tears.

"She…" The word was a scoff. "So much death, such destruction… and for what? A sniveling, sinful girl!" Father stumbled forward and Carlisle caught the sickly scent of rum on his breath.

"Useless…" he babbled. "Useless, sinful beast…"

The baby grasped Carlisle's finger, her little hand clenched snugly around it. He could see her fingernails in the firelight, no bigger than dewdrops...

"Oh ho…" Father leaned over his children, leering at the baby. "Just like Eve… sinful, and wanton, and wretched… a serpent in the grass, just waiting to strike…"

Carlisle shook, but held his ground as his father towered over them, his heavy hand reaching down to the hem of the baby's makeshift nightdress. Carlisle held still as his father jerked it up, glaring between her legs at the evidence of girlhood, and it was all Carlisle could do not to lash out when the cold air made the baby's face screw up, and she began to squall.

"Useless…" His father stepped back with a look of disgust. "Such a waste."

Carlisle moved away. His father laughed—a gruff, humorless noise that echoed down the hall—and Carlisle bit his lip.

"Get it out of my sight," said Father finally, turning his back on the two of them. "Put it upstairs, or out in the snow for all I care…"

An angry tear slipped down the boy's cheek.

"Just get it out of my sight…"

"Master…" Bessie sniffled. "What about a christening? Surely she needs a name, and if she is to know the way of the Lord…"

Father slapped her.

"Get it out of my sight!" he hissed again. "Go!" Carlisle jumped, but did not move.

"If I have to ask again, I'll put it outside for the hounds."

White, hot terror ran through Carlisle's veins as he saw the hard, glittering truth in his father's eyes. He had never known Father to make an idle threat and as he glanced down at the warm, sleepy baby, he knew he could not take the chance.

He fled.

* * *

In the silence of his bedchamber, Carlisle stood, quivering in the feeble warmth of the dying fire. The baby transfixed him. Her pretty, blue eyes stared up at him with such rapt and avid concentration that Carlisle almost believed that she could know him through that gaze. It was as if she could peer right through him to see his very soul, and though she was but newly born, Carlisle had a queer suspicion that not only could she see it, but she could read it. She studied him seriously in the grey light from the window, her wide, blue eyes no longer swollen shut. She seemed startled by him, as if she did not know just what to make of him, but she did not cry or fuss, so Carlisle continued to hold her.

"You need a name," he murmured softly. "What should we call you, eh?"

She blinked.

His eyes wandered to the bleak, cold courtyard on the other side of his window as he thought, his face screwed up as he tried to come up with something—anything—to call her. His father had spoken plainly—he would not name her—and Carlisle began to wonder if he would even agree to keep her. This helpless, tiny thing had come into the world wreaking such havoc that Carlisle had begun to wonder if his father—her father—would ever forgive her for it. Carlisle did not know just what she had done to their mother—how had such a diminutive, sweet little thing banished his mother to the Valley of the Shadow?—but however it had happened, Carlisle was sure it hadn't been her fault. His mother was gone—he had seen the awful truth for himself—but no matter how it had happened, he could not blame this innocent, nameless baby who he was sure would have lost her own life had he not lifted her from that bed of blood.

And so here she was, this brand new, studious little soul, staring up at him with wide, fascinated eyes on a white, round face.

Exiled, Carlisle thought. Banished from her rightful place at her father's table beside her family, and all because of a great and terrible tragedy, which, according to Bessie and the old crone who'd delivered her, was all too common…

Carlisle thought, then, of the King, his father executed and he, himself, banished from his homeland. He, like the baby, had no proper place. They had been banished from their ancestral seats, with no one loyal or strong enough to protect them…

"King Charles," he thought. "Banished King Charles…"

Charles. Charles… Latin, he thought, thinking back to his lessons. Carolus. Carolus. Carol…

Caroline.

The name, pretty and unusual, struck him all at once. He stared down at the austere little face with its solemn gaze and pouting lips before he spoke it aloud. The baby seemed enraptured when he spoke and when she gave a soft coo, he cracked a weak smile.

"Caroline," he said. "Do you like that?"

She blinked.

"I do," he confessed. "I think it's rather pretty, and maybe father will like it." His father was a staunch and stalwart Royalist—as soon as old King Charles had lost his head, his father, angry and frightened, had immediately pledged his allegiance to the King's young son and namesake, the new King Charles. His father believed that a king's right to rule was ordained by God, and since the flight of the royal family, he had often preached about the sin of disobedience…

A bang startled the two of them. Carlisle jumped, wheeling around to face the door, and the baby's face grew red before she let out a long, high wail.

Father opened the door.

"Give it here, boy." He spoke in a low, threatening tone.

Carlisle trembled.

"Give me that child or I swear on the holy cross itself that I shall whip you into oblivion!" Carlisle balked. "Now!"

His heart in his throat, Carlisle stepped away from the fire, the baby girl pressed tightly to his chest. "Please don't hurt her," he thought. "Please, please, please…"

The baby wailed even louder when she was transferred into her father's strong arms and Carlisle's heart pounded. His father would not look at him—his red, angry stare was fixed on her—and when Father brought his hand up to the baby's head, Carlisle gave an involuntary whimper.

Father's eyes flashed.

"Murder," he began, "is a sin." His voice was mutinous. "A sin above much else. To knowingly and willingly take a life when God has decreed it otherwise…"

The baby flailed, and Carlisle feared that she would fall. He could feel his heart in his throat…

"She didn't," he squeaked. "Honest, Father, she didn't…"

"Be quiet!" he snapped. "I know you saw… she tore through your mother like a demon and left her too broken, too damaged, for even the surgeon to fix... " Father choked up and Carlisle trembled.

"But you are not wrong," conceded Father. "For while your mother is dead and this creature is the cause…" The baby howled. "It was not willful murder."

Carlisle held his breath.

"No," finished Father. He stared down at the baby, and Carlisle thought he saw a flicker of doubt—a rare, momentary lapse that might have belied tenderness. He hid it almost at once and turned back to his only son, thrusting the baby back at him as if she had burned him.

"Take it," he growled, "since you seem so enamored with it…"

"Her name," said Carlisle, jutting his chin in defiance, "is Caroline." With the baby's weight back in his arms, he felt suddenly brave. He did not like that his father called her "it"… she was a she, a girl, his girl…

Father snorted.

Carlisle bit his tongue.

"Bring her here," said Father finally, reaching into the pocket of his robes. "Bring the girl into the light, and hold her still."

Carlisle did as he was bid.

"Hold her out." He obeyed at once. "Keep her steady."

His arms began to shake.

"Credo in Deum Patrum omnipotentum, Creatorum caeli et terrae…"

The prayer was long, and Carlisle, determined not to drop her, held little Caroline on stiff, cramped arms. His Father, solemn and serious, blessed her, pressed his old, wooden cross to her forehead, and wetted her brow with the holy water he carried with him at all times. She screamed when he did this and Carlisle had to snatch her to his chest to stop her wriggling to the floor. Not even his gentle, quiet "shush" could soothe her…

"I christen you Caroline, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…"

Carlisle, his arms still laden, crossed himself awkwardly.

"I'll have a nurse brought up from the village," said Father after a long moment of silent reflection. The baby continued to cry. "When she arrives, you'll move yourself and all of your belongings out of this room."

Carlisle balked.

"Why?"

Father stared.

"Because," he said slowly, "this is a nursery. You're much too old to be in here, sleeping next to your nurse, and the new nurse will need to sleep nearby so that the girl," he stared down at the baby, "won't wake the house with her screaming."

"But Bessie…" Carlisle saw the closed door opposite him—the one that hid the tiny, damp chamber where Bessie had slept for nearly 12 years…

"Will move to the attic with the rest of the servants," snapped Father.

Carlisle hung his head.

"You're a boy," said Father quietly. "My son… heir to all my lands and holdings, and one day, you will be the Master of this estate. You're a man—not some sniveling woman—and I will not have you demeaning yourself, sullying my good name, to play nursemaid to that girl."

The words were sharp, piercing him like knives, and despite his father's firm decree, he tightened his hold on her.

She whimpered. Father, observant and clever as ever, did not miss this silent defiance, this challenge to his authority which, in all its childish hubris, all but demanded to be answered.

Father glared at him for a long moment, no doubt waiting to see if he would relieve himself of the warm, squirming bundle, and when he did not, Father's neck flushed red.

"Fool of a boy!" he snapped, though he made no move to take her away. "You foolish, headstrong child!"

Carlisle held his ground.

"When the nurse arrives, you will move into the room at the end of the far hall," he ordered. "You will give her into the woman's care, and you will not interfere with my methods. She is my daughter, ill-fated though she may be, and I will not have you—a mere boy— sabotaging my efforts to make her respectable."

Carlisle frowned. He knew his father's methods, remembered all too well the sting of the whip when he was naughty or disobedient. "Spare the rod and spoil the child," his father would say. Be too soft on them, and they would grow up headstrong, and stubborn, and sinful, and saucy…

But he would not strike her. Of that, Carlisle would make sure.

"Keep her until the nurse arrives," said Father finally. "I'll send the boy in to stoke the fire…"

Only a few orange coals, still clinging to life, glowed in the grate.

"And let her alone," added Father. "Keep her close to the fire, but do not spoil her. She needs to learn."

"What?"

Carlisle stared, taking a moment to understand this new direction. What could Father possibly mean— do not spoil her? How was he supposed to spoil a baby— someone who, by nature, could ask for nothing and wanted for naught but basic needs?

"I mean it, boy," warned Father. "Put her down and do not spoil her. If she gets used to being held, she'll be squalling all the day long until someone takes her up. It's not healthy, and it's certainly not holy to foster such greed in a child."

The thought made him anxious.

What could Father mean by that, when he said he could not hold her? Was he forbidden to keep her near, though her warm weight had been such a comfort to him since the moment he'd scooped her up, cold and wet, from their mother's bed? The thought frightened him— what would he do without this little creature to look after? Surely that's what Mother would have wanted… she would have wanted someone to take care of her baby. She would have wanted someone to hold her, and warm her, and show her that someone—even someone as lowly as he—could love her. And how could he do that— how could he make his poor, dead mother happy— if he could not keep her near?

"But…" he sniffled, furious with himself for the sting of tears behind his eyes. Father glared.

Unable to help himself, Carlisle looked down at the baby— his brand new sister. She looked so much like the mama he had lost, whose abrupt and hectic departure had left such a queer, smarting ache in his chest…

Father waited.

"But…" Carlisle repeated. "But… I love her."

Father scowled, his jaw clenched.

"Do not speak of that which you do not understand," he snapped. "You know nothing of love, and how could you? A mere boy— a child playing the part of a man… how could you know anything about love?" He spat the word.

The man was right about one thing: his son was a child. He was only a boy with many years ahead of him before he could be called a man, but that same boy bristled, angry at this overarching presumption of ignorance.

"I love her," he said again. "I love her, and I loved my mother… I do know what love is, and I do understand!"

Father's face darkened.

"If you were not my son—Elizabeth's son—" Carlisle flinched at the sound of her name, "I would beat that insolence out of you with a thick, birch switch."

The boy glowered at the threat.

"You want to see what love gets you?" Father began to shout. "Go back into your mother's chambers and look again at that bed. See her lying there, bloated and cold, her body torn apart from the inside out! That is the price of love! That is where selfish yearning and sinful desperation will get you! Take that baby and show her what Elizabeth's love has done! Show her how her mother's undying devotion tore her apart… tore this family apart…"

Carlisle swallowed thickly unable to stop the tears as the image of his mother—splayed, broken, and bleeding— flashed through his mind. A hand grasped his face with hard, strong fingers and forced him to look his father in the eye

"You know nothing, you foolhardy, ignorant child!"

His shouts reverberated through the room.

"I love her," insisted Carlisle, sniffling through his tears. And he did… he felt indebted to her, beholden to her in her time of great need, and he would not, could not, abandon her…

She smelled like his mama—like clean skin, fresh linen, and warm, welcoming home.

"You'll ruin yourself, and drag her down with you," Father croaked, deflating when he saw his son's insistent arms still wrapped around the baby. "She may yet die…"

These words—keenly felt and sharply spoken—made Carlisle's face crumple.

"And if she sickens, she'll take you with her. And then what? I'll be left here, with no wife and no son, all taken from me by that damnable creature…"

The children quivered.

"I'm sending for the nurse," he said finally, "and you'll not put up a fight. You will give her over, and you will heed my orders, or so help me God… Do not disobey me, Carlisle. I do not want to punish you, but so help me, if you try and interfere with my decisions as the head of this household, you will force my hand."

He crossed himself, his lips moving in a quick, silent prayer, before he turned heel and left the room just as abruptly as he had entered.

Her weight was heavy in his arms. Standing on the cold floor, he huddled before the dying hearth, staring down at her tiny face. Her eyes were huge—the deep, piercing blue held him close and he could not look away. Father's angry shouts echoed down the hall and the baby began to cry, but Carlisle stroked her cheek.

"Don't worry, little one. I won't let you go."


	3. II: Summer 1653

**II: Summer 1653**

The boy hid in the bushes.

Lying low behind the fragrant cedar boughs, the boy barely made a sound as he watched, eyes squinting out through thick foliage towards the dark, grey walls of the manor house. He could feel sweat slicking his hair and trickling down his back, the great, warm drops soaking through the cotton tunic he'd donned that morning. He was out of breath and there was a sharp, aching stitch in his chest, so he huddled close to the ground, trying his best to stop panting.

If he could not control himself, Father would surely hear him.

"Boy!" The holler made him tremble and he stilled, forcing himself to keep silent. "Boy!"

He saw Father's boots scuffing through the grass, the old, black leather worn away at the toes. Despite their age the laces still held, and they were strapped tight around his ankles beneath the blowing, fluttering hem of his church robe. If looked closely, Carlisle could see the thick, leather strap hanging from his fist, but the very notion of it made him tremble. Even though he knew Father was not quick enough to catch him should he decide to run, the thought of the whip brought back the bitter memory of its sting, its cracking echo sending shivers down his spine...

" _Boy!"_

Carlisle did not move.

"Damn that child!" Father spat. "If you find him…"

"Yes, Master." The stable hand, with whom Carlisle had always been friendly, spoke in a low, rumbling timbre.

Hot, searing betrayal shot through him like a lance, and Carlisle felt such a keen rush of hatred that it was all he could do to keep quiet. He liked the stable hand. He had always been friendly and amiable, even when Carlisle turned up, unannounced, to hide in the haylofts after he'd been naughty. But now he knew, without even a hint of doubt, that the man was a backstabber. He was a blackguard and a Judas— a scoundrel of the highest order.

 _Friends no more, Sir Sneak,_ thought the boy mutinously.

"You did right, coming to me," said Father. Carlisle scowled. "If you catch him at it again, be sure I'm informed."

"Yes, Reverend."

Father's feet, awkward and stumbling, retreated back into the house and Carlisle let out a rush of breath. _Not caught,_ he thought. _Not caught, and not whipped, and not shut up in that dark bedchamber…_

The front door of the manor slammed shut behind Father and though Carlisle knew he was far from safe, the sudden rush of triumph— of gloating, successful defiance— made him swell with pride. It was not often that he was able to dupe his father, and Carlisle knew, now, that at least for a little while, he would be unbothered.

He squirmed, grinning.

The heat on his back gave him a thrill of delight. The grass beneath him was warm— it was one of those rare, bright days when the sun beat down and turned the whole world into a great, fiery oven. Though he sat close to the house its image was still distorted, the edges cast in great, rippling waves that emanated from the dark foundation. It was so often clouded and raining that Carlisle rarely found an opportunity to enjoy the warm outdoors, and he was not about to let Father and his foul temper spoil such an excellent day.

 _But we mustn't trust William,_ Carlisle thought. _Too loyal. Too close to father…_

Carlisle had thought he was safe when he'd met the him in the corridor to the nursery— that long, narrow passageway he'd been forbidden to enter.

" _That's where the women stay,"_ Father had said. " _It's no place for a boy."_

Carlisle would have found this acceptable, or at least _tolerable_ , had this not also meant that the baby was kept prisoner within, with no one but her young, steady nurse for company.

He had only wanted to see her.

 _The corridor stood before him like the maw of a great, hungry beast. The thin panes of glass inlaid on the wall behind him were filtering the morning light, though the glow was weak and did not penetrate the darkness ahead. Only one fiery torch was lit along the wall, but its low, red flame flickered pitifully and could not light his way._

 _It was strange, he thought, to be standing just where he was, with such a feeling of impending dread. He should not be afraid of a hallway— he was almost a man, after all— but the fear of being found out, of being caught, and captured, and punished for this open and abject transgression, made him wary. This hallway used to be his sanctuary: the place where he lived, and learned, and slept, and laughed…_

 _But now, he had been exiled, and his sister, trapped._

 _He crept slowly down the hall like a thief in the night, as if he were readying himself to_ steal _the baby, instead of look at her. He had left his shoes at the end of the hall, not wanting to make a sound, and so he moved over the cool stone in his bare feet, tiptoeing over pebbles and sand that littered the hall. Every so often he would glance back over his shoulder and wonder just how long it would be before Father found him…_

 _He reached the door to the nursery in a rush and stopped dead before it._

" _Maria?" His voice hissed out in a whisper. "Maria? Are you there?"_

" _Young Master?" The woman's high, gentle voice carried through the door. "Young Master, is that you?"_

" _It's Carlisle," said the boy. "Be a sport, Maria… let me in?"_

" _I…" He heard the hesitation in her voice. "Your father says I'm to keep the door barred."_

" _Oh, please?" he begged. "Just for a minute. I only want to say hello…"_

 _Silence, and Carlisle began to fidget. He could see the shadows of her shuffling feet in the chink of light under the door, and the soft sound of her skirts shifting against the wood seemed loud and cumbersome in the silence. As she pondered his request he bounced in place, his head snapping left and right to make sure that no one— especially not his father— would see him. If she did not make up her mind soon, he would surely be discovered…_

 _The sound of the thick, heavy bolt sliding into place making him grin, and when the door cracked open, he saw Maria's large, brown eye peering back at him._

" _What do you want?" she asked, glancing surreptitiously up and down the narrow corridor. "You'll be found out, if you linger…"_

" _Let me in?" he asked again. "Oh please, Maria… pretty please?"_

" _Oh, go on, then," she said, a frown marring her face as she waved him in. "Quick, mind you…"_

 _He rushed in and she shut the door behind him, fastening the bolt with a loud scrape._

" _Thanks," he grinned cheekily. "I won't be caught."_

" _I should hope not," she murmured. "The last time you were, he whipped me, too…"_

 _Carlisle grimaced, but put the thought out of his mind. He did not like to think of Maria suffering, especially not because of something he had done, but what else was he to do? He could hardly abandon his sister… what kind of man would he be if he left her unprotected and lonesome all because he was afraid of an old, drunk rector?_

 _He looked carefully around the room. Maria, at least, had pulled the tapestries away from the windows to let the bright sunlight stream in. The room was neat and tidy, just as it should be, and Carlisle was pleased to see the baby's bindings cast off._

" _Oh good," he said. "She's free… where is she?"_

" _Free?" Maria blinked._

 _Carlisle pointed to the thick, linen bandages._

" _Old fashioned, those are," sniffed Maria. "No need to wrap her so… she's growing straight as an arrow, and she's not bound at all except when your father comes to look at her. I've raised three boys of my own and I can tell you not one of 'em was ever wrapped up like that."_

" _Father comes to see her?" asked Carlisle, surprised. He moved over to the cradle where she lay, blinking up at the whitewashed ceiling and dark, wooden beams._

" _Sometimes," admitted Maria, "but not often. And he never stays long."_

" _No," murmured Carlisle. He reached into the cradle and the baby cooed. He plucked her up from her bed. "No, I didn't think he would…"_

" _Disappointed, he is," Maria said, busying herself with a wooden bucket filled with water that Carlisle hadn't noticed. She was washing the baby's linens. "Figured she'd be a boy…"_

" _He_ hates _her," said Carlisle, "but_ I _don't hate you, do I, little Madam?"_

 _The baby gurgled and Carlisle was thrilled when she gave him a gummy, slobbery smile._

" _Well now…" Maria bristled. "She_ is _his girl, even if he does wish otherwise. And she's such a nice baby. Almost never cries and pretty as a picture..."_

 _Carlisle blew a raspberry and Caroline chortled._

" _We don't need him," said Carlisle petulantly. "We're just fine with you and Bessie…"_

" _Don't speak ill of your father," chastised the nurse. "Remember… it's him who pays for your supper."_

 _Carlisle shrugged._

" _Pays for his ale, more like…"_

" _Young Master!"_

" _It's the truth," he defended, bouncing the baby as he turned to face Maria. "Everyone knows it… that's all he does, now that Mother's gone."_

 _They had buried her not four months prior, just as soon as the ground had thawed enough to dig the grave. His father, grief-stricken and filled with misplaced guilt, had taken a customary sip of communion wine that afternoon…_

 _...and again every hour thereafter._

" _He's probably drunk right now," mused the boy. "'He was up at dawn, before the morning meal was even served, drinking out of that damned cup…"_

 _The nurse gasped, crossing herself at the sound of Carlisle's curse._

" _Sorry," he muttered. "Don't repeat that word, Baby… Father will tan your hide."_

 _The baby cooed._

" _Why does he make you lock the door?" asked Carlisle._

" _I don't know," admitted Maria, recovering from her shock. "I just do as I'm told, Young Sir… I know nothing of it."_

" _Don't you long for the outdoors?" he asked. If_ he _had been locked up in the house, he was sure he would go mad. What was there to do, all cooped up inside without fresh air, or grass, or fields in which to run?_

" _I… I don't know," said Maria uncomfortably. "I don't think on it."_

" _Aren't you married?" queried Carlisle. "Father said you were… where is your husband?"_

" _Away." Maria flushed. "Gone to London on a merchant's boat..."_

" _I'm sorry," he said, though he was not sure exactly what he had to be sorry for. It might have been her sudden discomfort— the way her expressive and honest eyes had flashed with a sudden pain— that made him hedge. He supposed he understood why she might be sad… if_ he _had a wife, and_ she _had left him alone for so long, he might grow lonely too..._

" _What about your children?" he asked._

" _They stay with my sister-in-law," Maria replied._

 _Carlisle grimaced._

" _But never mind," said Maria. "Never mind about my husband and my children. I don't know why your father orders the door locked, but he does. And so I obey, lest he cast me out and leave me destitute…"_

 _Carlisle shifted._

" _Thank you for letting me in," he said shyly. "I like to visit her."_

" _And she likes your visits," said Maria with a gracious smile. "Just look at how happy she is, all laughter and smiles…"_

 _She gurgled again and it warmed his heart._

It had been on his way out of the room after bidding an overlong and drawn-out farewell to the baby, that Carlisle had been found out. Sneaking into the nursery had been easy enough, but sneaking out was another matter altogether.

He had made it to the one, lone torch along the wall when he saw the figure— tall and imposing, holding a small pair of boy's shoes in his clenched fist. At first he had thought it was Father— he had the same build, the same hair, and even, Carlisle noted, the same, long cloak— but when the figure had come into the light, he had seen only the confused, kindly face of William, the stable hand.

" _Master Carlisle,"_ he had said. " _What are you doing down here? You know very well that your father has forbidden it…"_

" _I was just…"_

" _Just what?_

" _Just…" Carlisle struggled for a lie. "Walking."_

" _With nothing on your feet? Do you want to catch your death of cold?" William tossed him his shoes, which he had evidently picked up at the end of the corridor, and Carlisle slid them on._

" _No…"_

" _And did I hear Miss Maria?" asked William. "I should hope not… your father would be terrible angry."_

" _I…" Carlisle balked. "I was just…"_

" _Come along, lad." William sounded tired. "I'll take you to your father and you can explain to him what has happened."_

" _No, William, please…" he pleaded. "He'll be ever so cross. He'll whip me, and probably Maria, and the baby will be ever so frightened…"_

" _That's not my place," said William. "Come along, lad. Your father is in the great hall."_

 _Carlisle had given him one last, suffering glare before he had taken off, ducking around William's strong, but slow, grasping hand. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, ignoring William's shout as he bolted down the corridor, through the entranceway, and out the front door to dive, head-first, into the bushes at the base of the cedar trees._

So now, he waited.

Lurking in the bushes, Carlisle lingered, his fingers brushing through the verdant blades of grass around the branches. Though the day was still young, crickets chirped all around him and as he rested his chin in the moist, warm dirt, he could see the quivering, wiggling shapes of other insects burrowing and tunneling beneath the earth. _What a life it would be,_ he thought, _to be a bug. To hide on a whim, to disappear into the ground, away from everything and everyone who would seek to do you harm…_

He jammed his fingers into the muck and pulled them up, black and soiled. How long would it take him to dig, he wondered, deep enough to hide _himself?_

He did not take the time to find out.

Confident that his father was no longer a threat, Carlisle crawled up onto his knees and peeked up through the leaves. The sun shone in his eyes and he blinked away the spots, but once he was sure that no one was watching him from the wide, empty windows, he drew himself up to his full height and stretched.

He was free.

Having no desire to return to the house where he was sure to be discovered, Carlisle crept through the courtyard towards the main road, grateful for the thick, gnarled oak that blocked him from view as he slipped beyond the hedges. The road was dusty in the morning heat— the water that usually ponded along the wheel ruts from heavy carts and wagons had dried up, and in its place was a thick layer of fine silt. He laughed as he kicked it, a great plume rising high into the sky, and before someone could come to investigate he bolted at breakneck speed towards the hill, at the bottom of which lay the village of Alfriston.

Picturesque and quiet, Alfriston lay in the valley of the River Cuckmere in the south of England, near the channel that divided the English from the French. The hill on which the manor rested overlooked the village proper— the settlement had grown around the house in the days of early kings when Carlisle's family had been Lords, and the village, their fiefdom. Carlisle's father had inherited this land from his own father— the last in a long line of Cullens that ran back into time immemorial. But as is so often the case, Carlisle's ancestors had sold their village holdings one by one until they owned nothing more than the grand house itself and a moderate piece of fertile farmland along the slope of the manor hill. As he ran, Carlisle could see the true manse— that quaint apartment next to the chapel that the rector and his family were supposed to call home. The church itself was massive— even from this distance Carlisle could see the steeple rising up into the wide, blue sky. Chimneys jutted from thatched rooves, billowing dark grey smoke from cook fires, and the river, which ran adjacent to the church and his home, snaked lazily along its winding path, glittering in the bright morning sun. The air smelled fresher on the road, cleaner than it did at home, and when he caught the sweetness of honeysuckle and lilac, he grinned. _Someday_ , he thought, _he would have to bring the baby here._ He was sure that she would love it as much as he did. When the time came, he would have to sneak her out, or else bribe Maria to keep it secret from Father…

The idea gave him a wicked thrill, and he filed it away for later.

Barreling down the hill was easy work for a boy as long and spry as Carlisle. The winter had been kind to him and he had sprung up like a weed until he was all legs, as Bessie liked to point out. He descended the hill in a headlong fashion, with quick strides that almost sent him tumbling head over heels each time he hit a bump or dip, and he came skidding to a halt at the edge of the village just in time to avoid a collision with a farmer's vegetable cart on the high road.

" _Watch it, boy!"_ the man bellowed from his seat at the reins.

Carlisle gave him a cheeky grin.

Crossing the threshold of the village, Carlisle found himself walking along the high road with a renewed spring in his step. The miller's wife, setting out her wash on a length of rope tied outside her house, watched curiously as he passed, and Carlisle nodded his head politely in her direction. She eyed him, frowning as he jaunted away, and though he knew she would be wanting to know just how he had come to be here, all alone, when everyone knew very well that he was not allowed out without his father or nurse, Carlisle did not stop to explain.

While the miller's wife had no way of knowing his scheme, Carlisle had a particular place in mind as he weaved through bodies and livestock, darting between carts and cows. Men drove their cattle down the road towards the butcher's shop and women ruffled their skirts as they carried buckets of water from the well in the center of town, but Carlisle did not stop to talk with anyone, not even when the old porter at the local inn shouted a friendly " _Good day to you, young Master Cullen!"_ as he passed.

He snuck into the dark, dirty alleyway shielded by a rickety wooden gate, and grinned. He could hear the rush of water, of splashing and laughter from just over yonder…

"Johnny! Hey Johnny! Look… It's Carlisle!"

Carlisle's heart soared and he loped lazily into the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes to make out the shapes along the riverbed.

Carlisle had always been a lonesome, sheltered boy. Being the Reverend's son had done much for his character, but had given him few advantages in the way of comradeship. The other boys in town lived in the thick of it all— boys like Johnny, the blacksmith's son, or Harry, whose father manned the small shipping dock along the river, lived smack in the centre of town, amidst the noise and hubbub of village life. It was true that Carlisle had a larger house, a grander purse, and the title of _Master_ atop the manor hill, but these boys had the town, its people, and most importantly, _each other._

"Good day, boys!" called Carlisle, raising a hand. "How's the water?"

"Never mind the water!" Johnny thumped him on the back. "How come you've come out?"

"Felt like it," shrugged Carlisle. "Figured it was a good day for a stroll."

The two boys chortled.

"We're fishing, see?" Harry pointed to two pieces of twine tied to sticks, which were drifting lazily in the current. "Ain't got nothing biting, but we've got time yet, eh Johnny?"

"Sure do," agreed the latter. "How long you out, Cullen?"

"I don't know," shrugged Carlisle. He moved closer to the water, resting his back against the trunk of a large, stately poplar. "However long I please, I suppose."

Both boys whistled.

"The Reverend said that?" asked Harry, wide-eyed. "You're _never_ allowed down here…"

"Sure did," said Carlisle. The lie only made him feel a little guilty. "I'm almost a man. And a man won't be bossed by _anyone."_

The other two, impressed, loped closer to the tree.

"Well…" Harry blew out a breath. "My pa ain't even home, so he can't boss no one either… not even Mother or Sarah, though they're girls."

Carlisle grinned.

"But your Ma can boss with the best of them," said Carlisle. This was true— Carlisle had spent many Sundays helping his father in the chapel after service, and he had spent just as long listening to the tongue-lashing Mrs. Bloom would give her children for fidgeting, or forgetting to bow their heads, or giggling…

Carlisle's father thought that Mrs. Bloom had it right.

"Sure can," agreed Johnny lazily. "You and your sister must be awful bad, or else she's just fond of scolding."

Harry pushed him.

"Mind your own mother and leave mine out of it," he groused. "And as for you, Cullen…"

Carlisle grinned.

"Your father scolds worse than any woman ever could. So don't you go about laughing at me for getting chewed out."

"I'm not laughing," said Carlisle. "Honest…"

"Well…" Harry eyed him up and down. "Just mind that you ain't."

Carlisle, wanting to feel the sun, left his place by the tree and strolled out onto the sunny expanse of grass at the water's edge. The makeshift fishing rods were still bobbing, though nothing seemed to be biting, and the other two boys followed him out. Carlisle glanced at their feet— they had no socks or shoes— and not wanting to be left out, Carlisle shed his own and tossed them back by the tree, brushing his white, bare toes through the grass.

"Wanna dip?" asked Harry, eying Carlisle's toes with barely concealed excitement. "Clothes ain't nothing to worry 'bout. They'll dry soon enough…"

The idea thrilled Carlisle, and at once, he sprinted towards the water.

"Wait for us!" cried Johnny. "By goodness, he's fast…"

And Carlisle waited, lurking in the gentle current up to his waist, to splash the other boys when they came down.

* * *

It was only when Johnny's mother— plump, red-faced, and scowling— came sneaking up on them as they waded in the surf that their fun was brought to an end.

"I say! John David Carter!"

"Uh oh…" Johnny, soaked to the bone, popped out of the river like a shot, his eyes wide as he turned to face his irate mother.

"What in heaven's name do you boys think you're doing!?" she bellowed. Her anger, so righteous and terrible, made even Carlisle pause. "Get out of that water this instant!"

Three sodden children, all with bowed heads and dripping hair, trooped out of the river one by one.

"We're in for it now…" Johnny mumbled, and to his horror, his mother's eyes snapped around to him.

She cuffed him on the ear.

"Are you mad?" she demanded. "Foolish child! You might've all been drowned!"

"I ain't mad…" Johnny complained. "And get _off_ of me, woman!"

She cuffed him twice more.

"Don't you dare sass me, you insolent boy," snarled his mother. "And you!"

Carlisle jumped when her eyes fixed on him.

"What would your father think, young Master Cullen, to find you bathing in the river like a common rat? It's unbecoming enough for a blacksmith's child, but for the son of a preacher..."

Carlisle's cheeks flamed, and he looked down at his bare feet. Mrs. Carter rounded on Johnny once again.

"Get on home to bed before I tell your father what you've done," she said to him. She grabbed her son by the wrist and gave him a firm tug away from the river, though he halted once she let go. "It's nearly dark! And you, Master Bloom…."

Harry, red-faced and frightened, shot the other two a look so pitiful that Carlisle wanted to reach out. It was not manly, he knew, to take another boy's hand, but it seemed a kind thing to do when one's chum looked so frightened…

But Carlisle held still.

"You can be sure that I'll be telling your mother about this little jaunt. Fishing! That's what you told her you'd be doing!"

"We _was_ fishing…" Harry protested, looking for all the world as if he'd like the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "We caught three…"

Carlisle could see the wet sack on the river's edge in his periphery.

Mrs. Carter swung her hand out at Harry, who yelped and flinched away before he could feel its sting.

"Get you home, child, and do it quick!" she snapped. "Don't you _ever_ let me catch you at such a trick again, else I _shall_ give you a smack. I ain't afraid to wallop my own flesh and blood, so you can be sure that I ain't scared to wallop you, neither!"

Harry, stumbling blind through a haze of tears, scrambled away up the sloping bank and crested before Carlisle could say one encouraging word.

"And as for _you…"_

Carlisle met her gaze with a steady, reproachful stare.

"I'd never dare raise my hand to the holy man's child," she said. "I'd be damned to hell for certain. But shame on you, Young Sir. Shame indeed…"

Carlisle stared at his feet again.

"Get on home before your father is worried," she said finally. "He's got enough to put up with, what with two children and no Missus…"

Carlisle fought the urge to scowl.

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Good lad. Go on, now…"

"See you, Cullen," said Johnny gloomily. "I expect you won't be allowed back out now."

Carlisle shrugged and turned his back, inching his way slowly up the long, grassy bank. He could hear Mrs. Carter, still tittering like an angry pigeon at her son, who was half-listening, half-watching as Carlisle made his retreat.

He stuffed his wet feet into his shoes without even bothering to lace them, and though he shivered in the cool, evening wind, he turned staunchly towards the village.

At night, the land was changed. Though the sun had yet to fully set, the windows on all the shops along the high road had been closed and their doors, locked. There were no more carts or cows on the road— they had all been shut up in their barns where they would rest until morning, when the whole hubbub would begin again. The high road was deserted, all windows shuttered with only the soft glow of fires peeking through the gaps, and the only noise came from the bustle of the pub some metres back and the soft hooting of an owl roosting in a dark and lonely attic. Stars had emerged sometime during his nighttime swim and as he passed the edge of the village proper he could see them clearly, glittering and sparkling like tiny gems among the heavens. The walk was peaceful, though his stomach twisted like snakes at the thought of what would happen once his father found out what he had done, but it was only as he approached the front of the manor that he caught any sign of trouble.

There was light in almost every window when Carlisle walked down the dusty front path, his wet shoes squeaking in the quiet dusk. He could see blurred shadows moving to and fro behind the glass— tall heads, short heads, squat faces, and long faces, though none stopped long enough for him to make out any great detail. It was odd for the house to be so alive. Though he did not know the hour, he knew the evening meal must have come and gone hours ago and all but the nurse, the footman, and one of the maids should be up in the attic, preparing for bed.

Strangely, however, the attic windows seemed to be the only ones in the whole house that were black and still.

" _...check the gardens,"_ came a low, commanding voice from the other side of the thick, wooden door. " _Check in all the bushes. And if he's not found, check the outbuildings."_

" _The haylofts."_ That was William's voice, and he pressed himself against the stone, listening.

" _What of them?"_

" _He likes to sit up there, Reverend,"_ said William. " _I've caught him at it, but he don't do no harm…"_

" _Check. If he's not found, go and find some men from the village to search. Take the horses if you must, and come back at once if you find any sign of him."_

" _Yes, Reverend."_

" _Go now, William, there's a good man…"_

The door flew open and Carlisle, determined not to be seen, crouched in the shadows beside the great, wooden door. The rough brick dug into his back as he slid down, curling his feet in as tightly as he could to keep them away from the beam of buttery light.

He waited until the hedges had been searched and William, with another stable hand and two kitchen boys, had disappeared down the dusty road on horseback before he cracked open the big front door.

The entrance was deserted.

Standing damp and cold on the threshold, Carlisle blinked against the brightly lit sconces and peered at the dried, muddy footprints on the stone floor. Those were men's shoes— of that, he was certain— and try though he might, he could discern neither their origins nor their destinations. They overlapped one another as if someone had been in and out all afternoon, tracing and retracing their steps, moving in and out of room after room…

He heard a voice from the upper level, loud and taciturn, and he followed it quietly up the stairs.

" _Move, woman."_

" _Yes, Reverend…"_

The baby cried.

" _If I find him here, you will be sorry you ever crossed me,"_ said Father, and Carlisle bit his lip. " _If I've warned you once, I've warned you a hundred times— that boy is not to be lurking in the nursery, and if I find that you've been harboring him…"_

" _No, Master…"_ Maria's voice trembled. " _It's like I said before… he just came to visit, and he's not been back since William caught him..."_

When Carlisle reached the mouth of the nursery hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks. Sconces had been lit along the wall— the one, lonely torch from that morning was lost among the throng— and though he could not see his father, he could see the nurse. In her arms sat Caroline, her little nightdress falling past her toes, and though the nurse bounced, trying to soothe her, her face was red and she cried her displeasure.

"Hush, little one…" Maria patted the baby's back. "All is well… don't fuss, darling…"

Caroline squirmed and leaned back in Maria's arms, and the nurse had to scramble to hold her up. When she turned her face towards the light Carlisle was outraged to see that her left eye had been blackened— it was swollen and bruised, and Carlisle suspected that she couldn't see more than a sliver through it.

"Maria?"

The nurse, startled out of her wits, wheeled around to face him. The movement upset the baby even further and she let out a piercing wail that could have shattered glass.

Carlisle stalked towards them, his face dark and stormy as he listened to the bangs and scuffling from inside the nursery itself. When Carlisle reached it he saw Father's back bent over the baby's crib, the knitted blankets and wooden teething ring thrown haphazardly to the floor. He lifted the small mattress, peering beneath it for barely a second, before he rounded on the dressing table and began pulling out drawers. Carlisle turned instead to the nurse, whose watery, glazed eyes flickered anxiously between the boy and the man, before she shook her head and whispered.

" _Please…"_

Fury like none he had ever felt before coursed through him. Who did Father think he was, to strike the nurse with such violence? Maria, whose sole concern was the care and maintenance of the baby— of Father's only daughter?

"Did you hit her?"

Carlisle's voice was strong in the silence, and his father wasn't expecting it. He jumped before he tensed, rounding quickly on his son who stood in the doorway, tall and angry. Shock registered on his face as he assessed the boy— Carlisle saw Father's eyes roving up and down his figure, taking in the sopping wet shoes, damp breeches, and untidy hair. Carlisle did not care and stared just as intensely back at the man, whose own eyes were red and his cheeks, sallow. The man was his father and well he knew it, but at that moment, knowing that he'd come low enough to strike a woman hard enough to leave an angry, smarting mark, Carlisle could not conjure up even a hint of affection or a whit of humility for the concern, frustration, and abject relief so clearly etched on the man's face.

"Carlisle," Father sighed. "Son. Thank the Good Lord… are you hurt?"

Carlisle disregarded the question.

"Did you hit her?" demanded Carlisle again, the words slow and precise.

At once, Father's colour brightness in his eyes told the truth— someone less observant than Carlisle might have thought the Reverend tearful. Perhaps he was sad at the thought of his son, lost and alone in the wild, or perhaps he was overjoyed at his safe return, but to Carlisle, who knew better, those glassy eyes betrayed nothing of the sort. Carlisle was intimately familiar with the effects of drink, and he knew for certain when his father swayed that it was not emotion that brightened his gaze— he was drunk.

"Aye, I struck her," he said. "And I'd do it again, the disobedient wench… But never mind that. Where have you been?"

Carlisle's temper flared and he felt heat creep up his neck.

"You've blackened her eye!"

Maria whimpered.

"You will tell me where you have been, and no more nonsense. The entire house is out looking for you… William has taken men and horses to rouse the village…"

"I was at the river," said Carlisle angrily. "Not that it's anything to you…"

"Mind your tongue, child…" Father reached out, his fingers trembling. When the baby wailed again, Carlisle jerked away.

"How dare you strike her? Did the baby see you do it?"

"What I do with my servants is my own affair!" snapped Father. "And if you speak to me in such a fashion again, I'll blacken both of _your_ eyes, and maybe the other one of hers for good measure…"

Carlisle'd had enough.

"And how'd it be if I struck you back?" he asked, his voice so low that Father had to pause to hear him.

"I beg your pardon? What did you say to me, boy?"

Wild, reckless courage flooded him.

"I dare you to strike me so," said Carlisle, much louder this time. "And when you do, how would it be if I struck you back? It would serve you right, you coward, for hitting a woman whose only care in the world is your own flesh and blood…"

"You insolent child!" Father said in astonishment. "How dare you stand there, so vulgar and haughty, and say such things to me?"

"How dare _you_ stand there," Carlisle shouted back, "terrorizing the whole house with violence and threats? And for what?"

"For you!" Father's temper was heated to boiling, and it spilled over all at once. "For you, you foolish, ungrateful brat!"

Carlisle laughed, and Father's jaw twitched.

" _I'm_ ungrateful?" he chuckled. " _Me?_ "

"Yes, you," Father ground out. "You, my only son, run away into the night to _God_ knows where…"

"Into the night?" Carlisle sniggered. "Shows how much you know…"

Father's hand twitched, and Carlisle knew he was in for a smack.

"I know plenty, boy, and you'd do well to remember that…"

"I've been gone all day," he boasted. "All day down at the river, and do you know what? It wasn't you or any of your poor, frightened servants who found me. If you'd taken half a second to _look_ , you'd have noticed that I've been gone since morning."

Father glared.

"So never mind your search," he said. "I'm here now. And I've something to say."

"Have you?" Father took two steps forward and Carlisle, though still shorter, was surprised to note that the top of his head almost reached his Father's nose.

"Yes," he gritted. "Don't _ever,"_ He prodded Father's chest, "strike that woman again."

"You do _not_ put your filthy hands on me," Father snatched Carlisle's wrist in a firm, tight hold. The boy fought not to wince.

"Let go!"

He saw the blow coming before he felt it. Quick as a viper, Father's hand was in the air, and before Carlisle could so much as duck, the hard, heavy palm came down on the side of his cheek with a sharp and biting _crack._ His head flew to the side, he tasted blood in his mouth, and as if something in him had been woken like a beast in the night, he saw red.

He didn't realize he'd thrown out his own fist until he felt the crunch of Father's nose, and the warm, wet blood on his hand.

Maria screamed. The baby howled. Father, thrown backwards by the unexpected blow, gave a muffled roar and he released his son at once, his hand clasped over his bloodied, misshapen nose. Carlisle stood unmoving in the center of the room, his fist still cocked as he held his breath, his mind racing to make sense of what he'd just done.

Father bent over at the waist, blood dripping steadily onto the shining, wooden floor.

Carlisle gaped.

"I…"

Father rose, and Carlisle shrunk away. Courage such as he had never felt before had overtaken him, driven him to act, and now that the deed was done, it fled all at once. The boy stood shivering, the fire doing nothing to stay the sudden chill that ran through him, and though Father was glowering at him with streaming eyes, the boy would not look away.

It was a long, tense moment before either of them moved. The baby continued to wail, her high, piercing screams echoing through the rafters above their heads, but not even Maria, who had a hand clapped over her own mouth, said a word to calm her. The baby's shrieks echoed around them and when Father stepped forward, Carlisle flinched.

But without a word, Father stalked out of the room, brushing past Maria and Caroline without a second glance. Carlisle listened, standing still as a statue, to his retreating footsteps until he heard the door to the Lord's chamber slam shut, the echo of the bolt ringing through the stone corridor.

He took a long, shaking breath before Maria crept back in, the baby still crying in her arms.

"Young Master…"

Carlisle, blinking, wheeled around. His arm was shaking, his knuckles smarting from the force of his blow, and he swallowed thickly before he rested his eyes on the baby.

"Give her here," he said softly, reaching out his hands in askance. "Please."

At once, Maria obeyed. Carlisle wondered for a brief moment if she thought he would strike _her_ , too. When she saw his hands outstretched, Caroline reached out her chubby arms and came to him willingly, her warm weight settling comfortably on his chest.

She quieted at once.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you." Carlisle spoke to Maria. "I don't know what came over me…"

"I'm not frightened of angry boys," said Maria. She did not smile at him this time. "I've got sons of my own, remember, and they brawl worse than you."

Carlisle gulped, glancing down at the sleepy baby. Her face rested just under his chin, and he could see her eyes drooping…

"I don't know what came over me."

Maria gave him a queer, questioning look.

"Don't you?" she reached down to scoop up the baby's blanket that Father had thrown on the floor.

Carlisle shook his head.

"I've never struck him before," he breathed. The baby's eyes fell shut. "Never in all my life."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've never seen a boy look so afraid as you did the moment after you'd done it," said Maria. "You looked as if he would put you in the ground."

Carlisle shivered.

"He might've," he grumbled. "He's angry enough, and _mad_ enough…"

"Your father is not mad," intoned Maria.

"He struck you," Carlisle countered. "He struck me. He tore this room apart for no reason and he called you names. He drinks too much, he sulks all day, and he loves God more than he loves his own children."

"He's a holy man," protested Maria. "Of course he loves God. We're all supposed to love God best…"

"Aye," agreed Carlisle, "but how many _parents_ love God best?"

Maria didn't answer.

"Do _you_ love God better than your sons, Maria?"

"It's not for me to say," she protested. "And in any case…"

"What?"

"Your father loves you well enough."

Carlisle laughed.

"I mean it," said Maria. He caught her gaze and was surprised to see tears therein. "You didn't see him today, when he went looking for you…"

"Looking for me?"

"You weren't at dinner," she said. "Bessie assumed you were afraid of the strap, but when you didn't show up for prayers and you weren't up in your room…"

Carlisle held his breath.

"He was frantic, Young Sir." Maria tucked a blanket around the sleeping baby on Carlisle's shoulder. "Desperate."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he sent every single one of us— every man, woman, and child— out into the night fto search for you. He brought his hounds out from the kennels. He had William drag the well, and he had the footman run down to the church to see if you'd ended up there…"

A hint of conscience, niggling and shameful, crept up his spine.

"You can never know… and how could you?"

"Know what?"

Maria paused, staring at him with such wide, sad eyes that he froze. It was not like Maria to be tender with him— he was not her charge, after all, and her time and energy was spent keeping the little creature sleeping in his arms content and safe. So when she cupped his cheeks, her soft, white thumbs wiping the wetness of tears from his face, he was suddenly struck with a hot and sickening yearning so strong that he felt the sting reignite behind his eyes. He wanted to lean it, to let her comfort him, though he was far too old to need such platitudes… she reminded him of Mother, and he had to remind himself, with great sadness, that no matter how hard he wished it otherwise, she was _not._

"You'll never know just how much a father cares for his son," she murmured. "All he wants is for you to be safe, and happy, and well. And when things go wrong, as they did tonight, you'll never know how frantic— how absolutely desperate— he can be. He loves you, Young Master, and you'd be remiss to think otherwise."

"He struck me."

"I know, lad." Maria let him go. "And you struck him. But tell me— do you not love him still?"

The question made him frown, and Carlisle did not answer. Maria pursed her lips and stepped back, swallowing against the welling tears in her eyes.

"I can imagine it's been difficult for you," she said, "what with your Mother gone and your father indisposed…"

"I _can't_ love him, Maria," said Carlisle sadly. "Look at the things he does, who he _hurts…"_

"It's a Master's right to discipline his servants as he sees fit," said Maria softly. "He's within his rights to smack, especially when we don't heed him. I _didn't_ heed him, Young Sir, and that's why I got a knock."

"Just because it's _his_ right, doesn't mean it _is_ right," said Carlisle, moral and fair to his very core. "If I were the Master, I'd never smack you… not even if you smacked me first."

"Don't make promises you might not be able to keep," she said quietly. "And besides. You're _not_ the master, are you?"

"No." _But he wished he was._

"Your father loves you."

"My father is a drunken, principled fool," he retorted. "He loved my mother, and he loves himself. He needs me to be his heir— he's said as much before— and do you know what he said when little Madam was born?" Carlisle swayed gently, rocking the sleeping girl.

"I don't," said Maria, her gaze fixed on the baby, "but you can't take an aggrieved man's words to heart…"

"He said he'd not care if she was put out in the cold, and that if he had to look at her any longer than he already had, he'd feed her to the hounds in the kennel," he spat.

Maria grimaced.

"He's your father, and master of this estate," she said finally. "His word is law. And even if you don't like a law, you must still follow it."

"Not this time," said Carlisle, resolute as he stared down at Baby. "He'll not keep me out of here again. And if he strikes you for it, I'll strike him again."

"Sir…"

Carlisle shook his head.

"Baby is mine if she's not _his,_ and I shan't let him bully us into submission. He tells me I'm a man and that it's not a man's place to interfere in the nursery, but tell me, Maria: Is it a man's place to struck down by other men when things don't go his way? Is it not a man's job to defend his honour? He wants so badly for me to grow up, so here I am. I'll be as grown up as he likes, but I warn you, he shan't like it. Grown men won't be pushed about, and neither shall I."

Maria did not answer, and Carlisle slumped. He stared instead at his sister, her round face squished against the collar of his tunic, and he glanced longingly at the little nursery bed he'd vacated half a year earlier.

"I'm tired," he announced quietly, making sure to keep the baby steady. "Shall I to bed, Maria?"

"Certainly, if you wish…" she held out her arms for Caroline, but Carlisle shook his head.

"Not tonight," he said. "I'll sleep in here tonight."

Maria bit her lip.

"If Master finds you…"

"He won't," promised Carlisle. "And if he does, so be it."

Maria shook her head.

"I'll have to tell the footman," she warned. "He's due in to tend the fire any minute, and he'll spot you. He'll tell your father…"

"Let him." Carlisle threw caution to the wind. "Do whatever you need to, Maria. I shan't be moved."

"Indeed." The nurse backed away. "Well then, Young Master. Little Miss..." She retreated into the small, damp room along the far wall.

Carlisle shed his shoes on the floor and turned back the covers on the little bed with one hand. Careful not to jostle her, Carlisle laid the baby down in the center of the mattress, placing a pillow along the open side to stop her from rolling onto the hard, stone floor as she slept. She did not stir— she was sleeping soundly and silently— and when he lay down next to her, curled up in a tight ball so as not to fall onto the floor himself, he watched her until the footman came in before he joined her in sleep.

 **A/N: Just a little historical note: In this time, the name _Maria_ would have been pronounced like _Mariah_ , not "Mar- _ee_ -a".**

 **Let me know what you think!**


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